


The Devil's Reflections

by anniespinkhouse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Completed, M/M, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniespinkhouse/pseuds/anniespinkhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer is back in the cage and Sam is out. Lucifer reflects. Takes place after S6, Appointment in Samarra, a few spoilers for S6 till then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is all fiction, pure fantasy folks. I vehemently deny knowing Lucifer personally.

The thing is, Lucifer’s cage, it’s a misnomer. Of the worst kind.  Nick’s lip curves as Lucifer considers the scale of his Father’s cruelty.

A cage is finite, with an entrance, or exit, there is texture and temperature and form and gaps through the bars to see the world.

This  _cage_ , Father’s cage, is vast, desolate, infinite, indefinable and grey. He cocks his head to one side and squints, grey doesn’t do it justice. It is grey-black, darkest charcoal, choking cinereal, dingy ash and unendingly drab. There were millions of years, he thinks, when he wandered the perpetual hard, soft, smooth, rough floor, but how do you measure time in an eternal dusk? How do you measure distance with no landmarks? It could be a planet but there are no stars, no moon and no sun.

Still, this, this is okay. He’s not sure how he got to nestle deep and dark in this decaying body. The one with the handsome stance and the ice blue stare, with the paper thin, worn red and blotched skin. It’s familiar, it’s home and it’s  _not_  Sam. He would rather be a wavelength of celestial intent, but in the circumstances these particular  _harsh_ conditions _,_  he doesn’t need any reminders of Sam.

He can create his own reality in his immediate vicinity. There are few limitations to that and there are anomalies, places to go, caves to hide in. He’s done that, so has Michael, presumably. Michael got bored of Lucifer and of Adam’s body and of  _Lucifer’s_  Sam sometime around Sam’s tenth evisceration and Lucifer hasn’t seen him since. Nick’s body snorts with Lucifer’s disdain. He never did need the stuck-up asshole anyway. He figures there’s not much fun to be had with a soulless body and takes morbid comfort from the lack of lasting response Michael will get while torturing Adam but it backfires because he finds himself thinking of Sam.  _It wasn’t like that with Sam._

Sam is the golden light of Azazel’s eyes, he is the bright fires of war and the burnished prize of Lucifer’s lost halo. Sam was the first color Lucifer saw in aeons. He was a vague burst of painful, poly-chromatic baby shape, seen through Azazel’s eyes and via a twist of crimson blood. Lucifer had known then that this was  _his Sam_ ,  _his_ vessel and  _his_  salvation. He snatched brief sensations and hazy multi-hued glimpses of Sam’s childhood and they fed his soul and his ego with the warm comfort of hope.

Nick flicks a finger as Lucifer adjusts his backdrop with ease. The view isn’t bright with daylight or moonshine but it shimmers with recent memory of demons chanting his name, of horsemen in his thrall and of  _his Sam_ , solid, defiant, worthy and _there_  with fast-beating heart and steady gaze of multi-tinted hazel eyes. He wonders if Sam ever saw the honeyed flecks in his hazel, the gift of Lucifer’s gold and markers of Azazel’s heritage. He never told him that, not even in the darkest grey embrace, when he buried Nick’s cock in the oozing, torn flesh of Sam’s body and listened to him scream with each vicious, scraping thrust of his resentment. He would have told him but back then, he thought they had time and Lucifer wanted to save some entertainment for later. Nick’s eyes shine with malice and delight at the thought of the revelation, how it would hurt Sam to know that the very sparkle which his brother fascinates over and stares at, comments on and lusts after, is the shine of hell’s fires and the proof of Satan’s claim.

A click of fingers drops the pretense. He can see right through it anyway. The charcoal infinity burns into his brain, cloaks his thoughts and chokes Nick’s lungs.

He shouldn’t be thinking of Sam, mustn’t consider Dean, but somehow it always comes around to this, turning slowly like a wheel or a planet in his brain, or Nick’s brain, but he stopped puzzling on that conundrum a long time ago. Does his cage rotate? Is it a planet spinning lazily in orbit of a black sun? He doesn’t know and supposes it isn’t the first time he’s wondered, millions of times in millions of years, probably.

Lucifer doesn’t hate Dean. Never could. Not even in the black moment when the veil of Sam’s consciousness fell over his control and he saw Sam step back from his brother, his lover, his mentor and  _his reason_ and let himself fall, with Lucifer, to bring them both to this place. Back here, to the incessant, somber slate of his incarceration.

Dean loves Sam with his heart and with his shared soul and that’s enough for Lucifer. Dean kept Sam safe for him, brought him back when he was dead and lost and Dean fueled Sam's misguided purpose. More than that Dean damned Sam with his lust, taught him the trail of hungry fingers over sibling flesh, placed hot mouth on yearning skin and offered him the clash of wet tongue. Together they defy the teaching of sanctimonious angels and pious men to celebrate love which is attributed to the devil, has been labelled Lucifer’s sin but transcends all of that, flies closer to his Father’s ideals than his. He cannot hate Dean. Dean loves Sam and Sam is a part of Lucifer. Lucifer doesn’t hate Sam. Lucifer feels something entirely else for Sam but he can’t pin it down and doesn’t know how to name it.

Lucifer counts ten paces to the left. Is it still left here? Maybe it is North or East, up or down. Who knows? He paces the opposite way, does the decimal system work here? He’s angry  _and_  antsy  _and_  bored  _and missing Sam_. Missing Sam’s vessel and missing Sam’s soul and cursing Castiel even with the knowledge that the fallen angel is already lost, was lost the day he fell. There could be no other way.

It’s a negligible distraction that he finds, a memory of anger appeased, of retribution and negative return, but he has endless monotone time and unfathomable bland space and this memory shines deep crimson red. It drips sodden with the beat of Sam’s heart, travels down the unraveling entrails of his guts and pools on the floor with a coppery tainted scent of fear. Lucifer’s fingers push into the hot slime, wet with everything that is Sam. They squeeze and squish in the warmth of his vessel and taint and burn Sam’s soul. Lucifer  doesn’t wear Nick’s face for this. It's Dean, it's always Dean but when Sam’s eyes are plucked from the hooks that impale them and returned to the body that is the Devil’s vessel, Sam’s soul always knows and is ever-forgiving of Dean. When Sam’s tongue is magically retrieved from the mincer, to smack wet in his mouth, Sam kisses Lucifer’s Dean and allows himself to pretend, because this is the best he will ever get.

The Devil shakes off the memory and stares into the distance. Or is it? He looks for the horizon, but there isn’t one, there never is. He doesn’t want to remember how he reacted to Sam’s kisses, the ones for Dean. There is no diversion to prevent it. Michael hasn’t emerged from his cave or finished his explorations, or whatever he is doing, so Lucifer can’t help but picture the vivid emerald-green of his envy. The color is astounding in its twisted beauty. Lucifer wonders what Sam sees when he looks into his brother’s eyes. Does he understand that they are the embodiment of the Devil’s jealousy staring back at him?  Does he remember Lucifer whispering that to him in an intimate moment, spooned and affectionate?

The gloom is silent. Without Sam or Michael or Adam it always is. Eternal damned silence without a trace of wind or rain or weather of any kind but Lucifer remembers the salt rain of Sam’s tears the screech of his pain and the howl of his despair. They were a sweet distraction of real sound and real sense and real emotion with a potency he controlled. He wants it back, he  _aches_  for it but there is something he wants more, that he desires with a white-hot intensity. He covets the moments when Sam was between dreaming and knowing, the times when he pressed his body flush to Lucifer’s soul, breathed on his being and whispered his love for  _this_  Dean, when he slid his whole, unmarked body down to Lucifer-Dean’s cock and took it into the red-slick and velvet mouth, licked and sucked and teased him, fondled his balls and whispered obscenities, licked a stripe and sucked him to fulfilment. He remembers the soft, broken voice and the words “I love you” and pretends they were for him, the Devil, Lucifer, Satan, Sam’s purpose and other half, but they never were and he never replied. Lucifer never gave Sam that reassurance.

Lucifer stands in this vast vista of loneliness, this everlasting void and shouts a belated reply “I love you Sam Winchester.” The thing is he means it, he always has. It has become twisted with time and the Devil’s desires but it doesn’t detract from its base meaning, he loves Sam Winchester. He loves a human.

A breeze stirs and wind whips Nick’s hair forward over the ice blue eyes. His fingers shift to push the strands from his face and Lucifer tingles with peculiar sensation. The breeze dies down to a faint air current and Lucifer is looking at what passes for ground in the cage. A sprout of spring-green pushes through the grey and curls a cheerful path to Nick’s foot. A round bud-head forms and swells then bursts into bold iridescent color and the dainty petals of a magenta daisy unfurl to reveal a perfect, golden, central sphere.

“I love him.” repeats Lucifer, watching in wonder as a tangle of viridian vegetation pushes through the surface and explodes in a rainbow of brilliant, blues, yellows, oranges and purples. Above his head the gloom clears a fraction with the sparkling shine of a single star.

It has been an ageless eternity, millions of formless dull years and suddenly, finally, Lucifer understands. It isn’t forgiveness and it isn’t redemption but it is Sam Winchester’s legacy and it is a start.

~end~    

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted at my LJ, http://anniespinkhouse.livejournal.com/27821.html in December 2011.


End file.
